Not Always a Villain
by treacheroustorment
Summary: Nobody comes out of the womb intent on becoming the villain of the story. So how did Mother Gothel get there? M for language and violence.
1. Chapter 1

_**IMPORTANT A/N**_: Before you say I am stoling this story, let me explain you a thing.

It's EliisaKensen back from the dead. I got permanently logged out of my old account- long story- but I'm here as treacheroustorment now. So you know that story, A Peek Into The Past, that was written by me. So yep. Here y'all go.

* * *

"Neiva!"

"I'm not gonna!"

"Just jump! Come on, you'll like it!"

"I'm not gonna jump!"

"Come _on_, Neiva!"

I stand at the top of the wet rock, bone dry, crossing my arms defiantly. I shake my head again. "No! You can't make me."

In the water below, clothed in her usual bright blue garb, soaking wet, Alora pouts dramatically. "Why not?"

"Because!" I sigh. "You know how much my hair frizzes when it gets wet. Plus, I don't have any proper swimwear. What am I going to wear when we have to go back to the village?"

"You'll dry off! Come on," Alora pleads. "You'll like it!"

"I'm not going to, and you can't make me," I reply defiantly, planting my feet firmly.

Suddenly, Alora's face breaks into a grin. "Maybe I can't... but he might."

"Who-" my sentence is broken off as I'm picked up like a rag doll and tossed off the rock into the river. Annoyed, I come back up, spluttering. "What do you think-" suddenly, I see who it is, and my lips curl into a wry smile. "Jordan Kilst, I hate you."

Jordan looks down at me and grins. "That'd be much more convincing," he replies, "if you weren't smiling quite so widely."

I stick my tongue out at him and splash him with water. "My hair's going to frizz terribly, and it's all going to be your fault."

"My fault?" he asks, eyes wide with fake innocence. "How is it MY fault?"

"You brat! Get back here and apologize!" I yell at Jordan, hiking my maroon skirts above my knees and running toward him, fully intent on clobbering him. He's too fast for me, though, even when I'm not dripping wet and in velvet skirts.

Eventually, I chase him around a tree and he comes up behind me and grabs my arms gently, pulling me back around. We're both laughing as he teases me, swinging my small body around with strong arms. Finally, I'm out of breath, managing to laugh out, "Okay! I give up! Put me down!"

He sets me down gently. "Ha! I win!"

I stick my tongue out at him. "I can still beat you up any day of the week. That I'm not wet and in heavy skirts, anyway." I reach a hand up to my hair and sigh. "You messed up my hair again!"

He shrugs. "I kind of like it, honestly. The curly with the frizzy."

I look at him, unamused. "Seriously? I have hip-length jet black hair. That doesn't look good when it's all frizzy!" I'm not that annoyed, but it's still obnoxious. I spent a while making it straight and looking nice, then Jordan goes and throws me in a river and makes me lose all the work I did on my hair.

He seems to think I'm angry, though, and wilts just slightly. His eyes turn apologetic. "Sorry, Neiva. I wasn't trying to make you mad."

I sigh. "You big dolt." With another laugh, I give him a hug. "I'm not mad."

He laughs back, crushing me in his much stronger arms. "Well, good. Because the only cure for being mad is being dunked in a river."

I pull around from him and giggle, running my hand through my hair. "Don't think you're exempt from this, Jordan. I will find a way to dunk you one day."

"You say that every time I dunk you..." Jordan says, smiling cheekily.

"You-!" I charge at him again, chasing him back into the clearing with the river. Before I even have a chance to react, he flings me back into the river. I swim back up to the surface with strong arms accustomed to swimming by now and glare at him. "What is wrong with you, Jordan?"

He's in spasms of laughter, collapsed on the river bank. Between giggles, he manages to choke out, "I... I think... you need... to lighten up... Neiva."

I manage to tread water with my arms crossed and look up at him, totally ignoring Alora laughing herself silly in the water next to me. The sight of Jordan laughing so heartily makes me smile beside myself. "I hate you, Jordan. I hate you."

"Again... you're... you're smiling!"

Finally, I pull myself out of the water and stand behind him, hanging my head over his. "What am I going to do with you?"

He grins, fully recovered from his laughing spasm. "I think the question is, what am I going to do with you?"

I shrug, eyebrow cocked skeptically. "Really? And what's the answer?"

He grins. "This." He pulls my hands forward, pushing me off balance and sending me stumbling back into the water. Fortunately, this time I keep a good grip on his hands and pull him in behind me. I hear a strangled yelp that's cut off by spluttering as Jordan gets a lungful of water.

I surface, almost having to pull Jordan, with his paltry swimming skills, up with me. "Ha!" I yell. "I got you that time!"

Alora laughs. "Ooh, Jordan! Now you have to come up with something else to get her back with, or she wins!"

He splutters. "Fine..." he concedes. Then he grins impishly. "I still got you three times in a _row_."

I shake my head and stick my tongue out. "Really? You're going to be like that?"

"Oh, you'd better believe I'm gonna be like that," he shoots back good-naturedly. "I live to make Neiva annoyed."

"I could believe it," I mutter with a smile.

He grins and splashes me.

"Leave it to me to ruin the fun," Alora pipes up, "but I think we've got trouble coming." She points up to the tall grassy hill, where I can see a small figure, silhouetted against the sun, coming toward us. All three of us look toward each other, all of us thinking the same thing.

_Crap. We're getting into so much trouble for this._


	2. Chapter 2

Alora's thinking about something. I know she is. And I also know it isn't "following the rules," which is what we're supposed to be thinking about. Slowly, she leans over to me, then whispers, "Totally worth it."

I roll my eyes. My hair's back in a neat braid, though it's still awful. Alora, Jordan, and I are sitting in a triangular shape, facing toward the center of the imaginary triangle our bodies are making. We're supposed to be thinking about how to be proper young people, not going swimming in creeks, not chasing after each other in forests, apparently not doing anything fun. Even after a half-hour lecture about it, however, none of us are thinking about that, and we all know it. Jordan grins. "I agree," he says under his breath.

I sigh. "Guys, we still have 40 minutes to sit and think."

"So?" whispers Alora. "We all know we're just thinking about how much _fun_ that was."

"It's true," Jordan agrees. "Why do they make us do this?"

"So we don't want to do it again, due to having to sit in one place for an hour." I wink at Alora. "This must be torture for you."

She groans over-dramatically, though still quietly. "I know." She drags out the word, making it annoyingly long. "I'm already about to die, and we aren't even halfway done!"

"Well," Jordan replies, "what are you going to do about it? We have about 38 minutes."

She shrugs, an impish smile appearing on her face. "The same thing we do every time we get in trouble."

I groan. "Not again... Alora, come on..."

She giggles. "Truth or dare! Keep track of your dares, and you have a day to do them after we're finished here. You can only do three truths or three dares in a row, then you have to do one of the other. Three chickens apiece. If you get caught, it's your own dang fault and you get in trouble alone. No plainly illegal dares-"

"And no romantic dares!" I glare at Alora, who giggles at me. Just a few weeks ago, Alora had waited until I was out of chickens and called a dare, and dared me to kiss my longtime crush. My cheeks feel hot just with the memory. I still haven't entirely forgiven her.

"Yep!" Jordan seems happy with this, though I'm still not ecstatic.

"My turn first!" Alora says, her voice still low. "Jordan, truth or dare?"

He shrugs a bit, light green eyes uncaring. "Truth."

Alora shakes back her flaming red hair gleefully and asks, "Who's your favorite king?"

He rolls his eyes. "Alora, there's like a million of them."

"I know! It's still a fair question!"

He shakes his head good-naturedly, dark brown hair falling into his eyes. "Bartimaeus," he answers, obviously picking a name out of thin air.

Alora pouts. "That's not even nice. He was the meanest of them all. It's pretty obvious you didn't even try..."

"Maybe I like him anyway." Jordan smiles. "I answered. Now shush." Turning to me, he asks, "Truth or dare?"

I consider for a second. "Truth." Usualy truths are safer than dares in this game. They might be embarrassing, but they'll rarely get you in trouble.

"If you were a witch, what would your witch name be?" It's a common question- as outcasts from society, witches generally have more sharp names, where common people's are far more silky. Children will find a witch name and use it when they want a pseudonym. It's fun and harmless, as witches are extremely, extremely rare now.

I don't even have to consider. My witch name's been set for a while. "Gothel," I reply.

"Ooh, I like that one," Alora replies. "It sounds like a snake name."

I laugh quietly. "And then everyone would have to call me 'Mother,' including people who are older than me! Can you imagine," I continue, trying to mute my laughter, "some old lady coming up to me and calling me 'Mother Gothel'?"

We all burst into contained laughter at this, shoulders only shaking slightly. After not very long, you learn how to get past the watch of the older people who are in charge of punishments. We're forced to stop the game for a good five minutes, before we can start again, hushed tones making sure none of the guardians can hear us. Usually they're engrossed in a book or something, so it isn't hard. Finally, I'm able to ask Alora, "Truth or dare?"

She immediately replies, "Dare!" I exchange a knowing glance with Jordan. Alora's always doing dares, unafraid to do just about anything, especially if someone challenges her to do it.

"Okay..." I reply. "I dare you to ask Minten about when he was a kid."

She groans. "You just gave me a punishment worse than this one..."

I giggle slightly. "That was the point. It's your turn, Alora."

"Jordan, truth or dare?"

"Truth," he replies characteristically.

"Hmmm." Alora's bright blue eyes take on a thoughtful look. "Drawing or writing?"

"Drawing, of course! That was kind of a stupid question, Alora."

Immediately, Alora gets defensive. "Hey! How am I supposed to know that?"

Jordan rolls his eyes. "Well, first of all, you've known me for at least 10 years. Ever since I was like 6. Second of all, have you ever _seen_ me writing? Rhetorical question," he continues as Alora opens her mouth to respond. "No. Because I don't write, I draw."

Alora pouts. "Fine. I'll sit here alone with my little stupid question and cry."

That sends me into paroxysms of giggles, and we're forced to abandoned the game we're playing again, again for another five minutes.

Alora sticks her tongue out at me. People tend to call her "a single ray of sunlight," a beautiful, shining point of light into everyone's lives. I agree, though she, in turn, calls me "a single wave on the shore," due to my light blue-green eyes and black hair. Whenever the sunlight reflects off her copper hair, Alora even looks her nickname, being exactly like sunrise's first ray of sun. She knows it, too, and has used her beauty to get many a guardian off our back just by looking cute.

Finally, we're able to resume our game, Jordan asking me, "Okay, Neiva, truth or dare?"

"Truth, of course."

"If you could go anywhere in Corona, where would it be?"

I consider all the various places. We have a perfect village here, grassy clearings, creeks, caves, and forests all within a few miles of each other, but I know Jordan's thinking more large-scale. "I've always wanted to go to the castle."

Alora scoffs. "Everyone wants to go to the castle."

I glare at her. "Well, a girl can dream."

She giggles quietly. "Whatever floats your boat, sea wave."

I stick my tongue out at her. "Truth or dare?"

"Da-" she stops abruptly, noticing me and Jordan's scheming looks, and switches. "Truth, actually."

"Who's your favorite person in the village?"

Alora smirks. "Cinta."

I roll my eyes. Cinta's our baker, a jolly, fun man, and I love him too, but that wasn't what I meant, and she knows it. I have to word things carefully, making it not technically even a question about who she's crushing on. "Favorite teenage person, silly."

"You." At the sight of my entirely unamused face, Alora bursts into laughter and we're forced to stop our game again, this time for eight full minutes.

"Okay, you win this one," I relent slightly. "But one day..."

Alora giggles, distinctively maniac, and continues, "Okay, Jordan. Truth or-" she cuts off her sentence abruptly at the guardian wanders over to us.

"Are you ready to be productive, developed, properly adjusted young members of our village?" asks the guardian, looking into each of our eyes.

All three of us nod solemnly. She nods back, then replies, "Then so long, children. I will see you later." I start to walk off, then she says, "Oh, and, Neiva?"

I stop and turn back to her, as does Jordan. "Yes ma'am?"

The older woman winks. "Alora's boy that you've been trying so hard to find? It's Bulnar."

Jordan and I look to each other, stunned. Not only did our guardian hear our game of truth and dare, she didn't stop it AND she helped us? I suddenly grin at Jordan and mouth, _Score._


	3. Chapter 3

_A/N: i am the slowest story updater. it is me._

_sorry guys._

* * *

"Neiva!" Alora's face is set in a highly exaggerated scowl. "You promised you'd take me to the flower field!"

I sigh. "I want to go myself, Alora." I look over from straightening my hair to shake my head. "You're 15. You can go to the flower field any time you want."

She just pouts. "But I don't want to go by myself! I wanna go with you!"

"Just this once," I bargain. "I'll take you with me next time. I promise."

"You promised that last time," Alora says, distinctly disappointed. She isn't exaggerating this time, and her eyes are sad.

I give her a quick peck on the cheek. "Come on, sis. Tell you what, give me today in the flower field, then I'll come hang out with you all day tomorrow. Sound good?"

Her eyes light up, the disappointment of a few seconds ago forgotten. "You mean it?"

"Of course I mean it! What are big sisters for?"

She grins. "Okay. Tomorrow, then."

"Great." I smile back. "Thanks, Alora." My hair now entirely straightened, I bend to pick up my bag, hoping she won't notice the extra weight in it, making it heavier and more bulgy from usual. Awkward questions would be difficult to answer right now.

Thankfully, she doesn't see it, and I'm able to slip out of "our" house to go to the flower field.

It's not really our house, honestly. With our sad lack of guardianship, my mother's house, built entirely by her, was unofficially passed on to me. At the time, I had been 12, not nearly old enough to actually take care of a family, but I had also been stubborn and managed to take care of both Alora and myself fairly well, and legally, until I was able to get a steady job a few months later. It wasn't ever my first decision, but we got by.

Finally, I get to the flower field. It's beautiful, bright, colorful flowers stretching out as far as the eye can see, right up to a flowing lake near one end, where the creek empties out. There's so many colors, and it's just about picture-perfect. I love it and can never get enough of it, sometimes even ditching our little day school just to sit here.

With a happy sigh, I set my bag down at my feet and pull out my wonderful art kit. My secret.

I draw and paint on a regular basis. I don't tell people very often, preferring just to keep it between me and my drawings. Usually I burn them after I'm done. Nobody really wants to see them anyway; I'm not all that good, and many people think drawing and painting a huge waste of time. Some people can do it. Jordan, for example, can get away with it because his dad's a farmer and it's obvious that they do a lot for the village. But little old me, with no parents to speak of and a job collecting nuts and berries, will probably get the short end of the stick if I try to let people know about my favorite hobby. It takes some effort, but I can keep it, even from Alora, pretty easily.

I set up a small easel from my bag and roll out a piece of paper, cutting off a decent-sized piece. Paper's pretty expensive, and it's hard to buy as much paper as I do without standing out, but I manage by keeping the man I buy it from on my good side with meals and specials. I'm not a bad cook, as Mom taught me the basics, but it's still a chore. Maybe there's more truth than I want to admit to the idea that says that drawing and painting is a waste of time.

As I lay my jars of paints, makeshift brushes made from splintered sticks, and stubs of pencils out in front of me, I note that I need more yellow. I make all my own paints from berries and roots, having learned after much begging and favors given to Jordan. He had a field day with it, too, knowing he knew something I didn't and wanted to know. Jordan learned from his mother, who learned from another woman in the village, and so on. Being a boy, Jordan wasn't even supposed to have learned, but his pleading is hard to ignore; I know that well enough.

Finally, I pull the last thing out of my bag. I only keep one picture every month, the picture I paint of my mother. When she died, I realized that, with only about 9 years of memories of her, I would forget her if I didn't keep her image fresh in my mind. So I started painting her. The first painting I painted of her I spent months on, making sure every tiny detail of everything was perfect. Ever since then, I've painted one a month, sometimes looking at my previous picture to remember her if I need to, then spend the rest of the day thinking about her, recalling my memories. Like with all my paintings, I burn the old portrait when the new one's done. As long as I have one picture of her, I'm satisfied.

I start to draw my mom out, broad strokes across a large ball gown skirt I'm drawing her in, short strokes across her petite figure, gentle curves around her face. I work diligently on her face, marking out sparkling eyes, a small, slightly pointed nose, perpetually smiling lips, and high, thin eyebrows. Her arms, thin and graceful, dancers' arms, are placed perfectly but randomly, thrown out around her carelessly but with a dancer's elegance. Mom was a dancer, even if she never admitted it; anyone could tell you that. The curves I pull into the ball gown come easily, even though I've never actually seen one in person. I draw her as if dancing, spinning across the dance floor gracefully, skirt swirling around her legs, eyes laughing at something just outside of the paper. It isn't hard, as I can still picture my mother almost any time, doing anything, because of all the practice I've had drawing her.

When I'm satisfied with the drawing, I put down my pencils and grab the paint jars. With quick, memorized strokes, I paint out her shining copper hair, hair she passed on to Alora. I place a tiara on her head, painting her almost as a princess in the castle, beautiful, smiling, not a care in the world. I also paint in her blue-green eyes, eyes I inherited, keeping them twinkling and bright. With just the slightest hesitation, I decide to make her dress teal. Everyone liked that color on her, though she never really loved it. I mix the color and start to paint diligently.

I'm halfway through painting the dress, paying attention to how it falls around her figure, how her movement would've affected the fabric, when I'm startled by strong hands around my waist, leaving my hands free but my body pinned. I shriek and drop the pot of teal paint I'm holding, coating my hands in light teal paint, vaguely hearing the clay smash against the ground. Suddenly angry and scared, I push away my attacker and step away from the easel, coming nose-to-nose with Jordan.

We're both utterly shocked for a second. Finally, he breaks the silence. "Well. Hi, Neiva."

I can't think of anything to say. After a long pause, I breathe, "Don't tell anyone."

He shrugs. "Maybe I will, maybe I won't."

My breath catches. "Jordan, this is not something you can play with me on. Please don't."

"Well," he replies with a grin, "then maybe you shouldn't have been doing something secret."

I could scream. "I swear, Jordan. You tell anyone, and I will go to your house while you're sleeping and pour lemon juice on your eyes." I'm dead serious. This is my secret, and I'm not letting some stupid 16-year-old boy ruin it for me.

He winces. "Ow. Bad mental image." With a sharp breath, he screws up his face. "Ouch."

"My point exactly." I shake my head. "Why are you stalking me anyway? Creep."

He rolls his eyes at me. "Alora wouldn't stop whining about how she wanted you to take her to the flower field. It only took a question or two to learn that you'd left her in the village to go yourself." He shrugs, a characteristic twinkle in his eyes. "So, I figured I'd come see what you were up to."

"Well, that was wildly stupid. I'm obviously doing something alone." To be honest, I'm mad at Jordan for finding just about my only secret. Nobody goes to the flower field anymore except us three, and Alora usually keeps Jordan plenty busy.

"Exactly. Painting something." He tries to peer around me. "Lemme see."

I back up, far enough that I'm covering the painting, but not so far I'm touching it. The paints are still wet, and with the money it's going to take to replace the pot I dropped, I can't re-do the picture. "No! It's mine. You aren't even supposed to be here."

"But I'm here now." He smiles cheekily. "I could always tell my father."

"Again," I remind him. "Lemon juice. Eyes. I'd suggest you don't, mainly for your own safety."

He looks over me sarcastically. "My_ safety_? Neiva, you weigh all of 110 pounds sopping wet."

"Maybe, but I'm mean." I know this isn't going to work, so I resort to my last-ditch effort. "Please, Jordan. I can't stop painting. I'll do just about anything for you, but don't tell anyone. You have the opportunity to paint without anyone caring. I don't. My paintings aren't very good, and I have nobody to back me up on them. Painting is a waste of time, as every villager says." I hate begging, but I need him to leave me alone. "Just leave. Forget you ever saw me painting."

He shakes his head. "No can do. Let me see! Please?" After my glare doesn't change, he adds, "I can help you."

I hesitate. I want to show him, I really do. But I know he'll just run off and tell his father. Then where will I be? They'll take my art supplies, and it'll be years until I have enough money to buy them back- more than long enough to forget how to draw Mom. So I bargain. "If I show you my picture," I begin, "you promise never to tell any of the adults what I'm doing. Deal?"

He smirks. "All right. You got yourself a deal." We shake hands, and I unwillingly step aside to give him a clear view of the picture I've been working on.  
He blinks once, surprised, eyes wide. "I'm sorry, did you say you weren't very good?"

"Yeah," I mumble, bending to pick up the shards of the pot I dropped. I'm still mad at him, but I want him to like my painting. There's not really any chance though. Jordan can actually paint. I can't. "You're better than I'll ever be."

"Neiva, this is amazing!" He pulls me up by my hands, ignoring the thick, quickly drying paint coat, making me drop the sharp pieces of clay in the process. "I've seen you draw before, but mainly just doodles. This is..." he pauses, apparently searching for the right word. "This is fantastic."

I'm shocked. "Uh... what?"

"You could become a painter if you wanted." I give him a sarcastic glare and he shakes his head. "I'm not joking. This is so good. And all without training or anything," he mumbles almost to himself. "You have more natural talent than I do." He pauses, as if suddenly realizing something, then lets go of my hands. "Do you have more? You have to have more paintings."

I grit my teeth, annoyed. He shouldn't care. "I burned them."

"You _WHAT_?" He looks horrified. "Burned paintings? Of any kind? Why? If they're anything like this one, too, they should be kept!"

Finally, my anger runs over. I slap him harshly, leaving a red handprint and teal paint on his cheek. "I never asked for your opinion!" I yell. "You don't have the same life I do; you have the freedom to paint at your own house, with paper and brushes your parents buy you, working on pictures you're going to end up keeping, looking at for months." I snarl. "I don't have that luxury, Jordan. I have to look like an adult, act like an adult, while still being a kid, provide for my sister and I while also trying to use extra money for my painting. I don't have my parents. I don't get what you get. And I don't care!"

Jordan's eyes look sad and scared for a second, like they do whenever he's in trouble, then they change to understanding. When his mouth opens, he says just about the last words I was expecting to hear. "You miss your mom, don't you, Neiva?"

I grit my teeth to keep a sob out of my voice. "Why do you care?"

"Because I'm all but your big brother," he replies. "Because I care about you, even when you're being stubborn-headed."

I cross my arms and shake my head, but a tear trails down my cheek even as much as I try to keep it back.

Jordan holds his arms out, exactly like he used to do in the days just after Mom died, and I find myself muffling my sobs into his shoulder, his arms holding me strongly. We've done this so often, I'm not even ashamed of crying in front of him, showing how weak I really am when everyone's not looking. I forgot how comforting he was, how comforting he's always been, willing to make you feel better with anything he can give. He's always helping someone. I'm just glad he'll also help me.

Finally, after a few minutes, I pull back away from him, wiping away tears with the heel of my hand. "Thanks, Jordan," I whisper. "Even if we really aren't related... you're welcome to be my big brother any day."

He smiles, a twinkle escaping into his eyes. "As long as I'm avoiding lemon juice in my eyes, I'm more than happy to."

I laugh. "Hold up your end of the bargain, and I won't have to."

With a smirk, he replies, "All right then." He sits down against a tree and motions to my painting. "You gonna finish that?"

I look down at the puddle of teal paint at my feet. "Well, _somebody_ made me spill all the teal I was going to use."

He shrugs, seemingly unconcerned. "Blend it to green or blue. I want to see what you can do."

"Fine." I roll my eyes. Blue did always set off Mom's hair pretty well.

With a deft hand, I swirl my dark sapphire-blue paint into the teal color already drying on the canvas. Thankfully it's wet enough to allow for easy blending. I use my brush to blend it so it appears almost pearlescent, soft spots of teal shining through the dark blue I've chosen as the new color.

"What in Corona are you using as a brush?" Jordan finally asks.

"It's a splintered branch. Brushes are way too expensive."

Jordan falls silent, and I move on to the background of the painting.

This is my favorite part. Some days I use the flower field as my background, but I feel like this needs something more regal, more formal. I brush out a dark midnight-black sky, twinklings of white stars, luminescent moon shining down on a grassy field, dark save the moonlight.

"I'm done," I finish, bending down to start putting away my pots.

Jordan moves to inspect my painting. He smiles. "Neiva, this is still amazing. Maybe even more, now that you changed the color of her dress." There's a slight pause. "Who's she smiling at?"

I shrug. "I dunno. Maybe a child. Me or Alora. Maybe my father. Maybe Alora's father."

"Does it ever bug you that you and Alora don't have the same dad?" Jordan's still looking over the painting, but doesn't seem to feel the need to always stay there as far as questions go.

I shake my head. "We were raised as sisters. So we're sisters. Half-sister doesn't mean anything."

"Does it bother you that neither of you even know who your dad is?"

Sighing, I reply, "I suppose, sometimes. I wish Mom would've left us something. But I've never had a dad, so I really don't notice."

"What about-"

Jordan's about to ask another question when he's cut off by a sound. I quiet, cocking my head to hear better. Suddenly, it comes again. Jordan and I stare at each other, shocked.

Then I take off running, leaving all my painting supplies, my paintings, everything. I can hear Jordan yell after me, but I don't stop.

Because when my little sister screams, I find her.


	4. Chapter 4

Unheeding of whatever else is going on around me, I tear through the forest, running full-tilt toward the city. I need to get to Alora. I need to find her, to help her with whatever she needs help with. My sister is the most important thing I've ever had in my life. She's not getting away from me, and I'm not letting her stay in danger. That scream was pure, unadulterated fear. It scares me to death.

Finally, finally I get to our house. It's built on the outskirts of the city, but it's still more than close enough that someone should've heard Alora. Someone should be here, helping her, even just seeing what's going on. Right?

Wrong.

There's nobody.

I always knew nobody in our town liked us, but I'd never thought they'd go this far, ignore my sister's screams because of who we are. It's not our fault Mom wasn't exactly an exemplary, entirely clean person. It isn't my fault we're both illegitimate children. The thing is, because Mom's gone, the people in the town have nobody to blame for it. So they blame us, turning their backs on us entirely.

I just didn't know "entirely" applied to this, too.

The wooden door, one that's so annoyingly flimsy, has been knocked down, and the one window is broken. Obviously, something's wrong. Dead wrong.

Alora screams that blood-curling scream again, and my heart leaps into my throat. I dash into the house, throwing caution to the wind, just trying to reach my sister. I can hear Jordan's steps just behind me, following me in.

We both stop, Jordan a foot in front of me, staring at the sight we're met with. My brain won't even fully comprehend it.

There's a tall man, standing just in front of Alora, pushing her up against the wall, his left hand choking her and a spear held tightly in his right hand, pushed firmly to her throat. Immediately, they both look to us. I lock eyes with Alora, inwardly screaming but outwardly shocked beyond words. Her bright blue eyes are scared and full of pain in a way I've never seen them before in my life. They're usually so happy, but right now they're just terrified.

After about a half-second, the man snarls and pushes his spear forward, and I have to watch as the sharp point pierces her throat, crimson blood bubbling out of her neck as she lets out a muffled scream. The man pulls the spear away and whirls to face us, and Alora crumples, curling up in a protective ball on the floor. She's whimpering quietly, but I can't even comprehend it. That's my sister.

_That's my baby sister dying on the floor._

Finally, my brain snaps back into gear. "_Alora!_!" I scream, trying to move forward to get to her, to help her, so she doesn't die somehow. I don't even know what I'm going to do. I just need to save my baby sister.

Jordan holds me back, grabbing my arm and pulling me back behind him. "Neiva, stay _back_!" Usually, Jordan doesn't yell, and it scares me enough to paralyze me again.

In return, the man throws his spear straight at him, impaling him directly in his chest, going right through his heart and coming a good foot out of his back. Quietly, he gasps, bringing his fingers to his chest. He pushes on the staff hilt, and his face blanches, turning white as a sheet, as the front of his shirt turns dark red, blood pooling out over his clothes. He lets go of my arm and stumbles away from me. Then he falls, and somehow I know he's dead before he even hits the ground.

I'm paralyzed. Not Jordan, too. Please, no. Not both of them. I love them both. They're the _only_ ones I love. I can't have them die. It hurts too much; the feeling's more than overwhelming.

I look up to the man, who doesn't even look fazed. He uses his right forearm to push me against the wall, reaching back into his belt and pulling out a long knife that he lays across my neck, pushing it into my skin. He pauses for a second, just looking into my eyes. "Kill me," I hiss. "You've already done it, for all intents and purposes. Alora and Jordan _were_ my life. I have nothing left to live for. Just kill me."

He's about to, but then another man comes out of my room and holds up a small bag. "Jeffrey, we've got everything. You know how little these kinds of houses end up with. A couple pieces of jewelry and some money."

Robbers?

Wait, really?

I can feel the absolute and utter shock register in my eyes as I look, disgusted, at the man holding me against the wall.

These men killed my sister and my best friend because they wanted money. They took my mother's jewelry and everything I've saved up to keep Alora and I alive. All of which, together, is worth ever so slightly more than _nothing_.

Definitely not worth more than two lives.

"Jeffrey. There are people coming. Let's go."

The man holding me rolls his eyes and drops me, jumping deftly out of the broken window after the other one. They leave me there, though, not even injured. Not dead like I was sure I was going to be.

I stumble over to where Alora is lying. "Alora, no. No, no, no... please, no." I pull her into my lap and hold her tightly as tears start to fall from my eyes. "Wake up. Please. Don't just leave me here."

She stirs, just slightly, and my breath catches. "Neiva," she whispers, her voice bubbling through the blood still running from her throat, "you're still here?"

"Yeah, Alora," I say, desperately trying to keep sobs out of my voice. "Of course I'm here. Why would I leave?"

"Oh..." she sluggishly nestles closer to me, dripping dark, slimy blood all across my already red dress, and starts absent-mindedly stroking my hair. "Can you sing me a song, then? I'm sleepy..."

I want to scream at her not to leave me, to stay here, to fight against it, but I can't. I can't do it. She's going to die, I know she is and I might as well make it as easy as possible for her. "Sure, Alora."

"The normal one?"

"Yeah," I reply, choking back my tears. We learned this song from Mom, someone who many people called a witch. I kind of believe it, too, not that I really care. She's my mother; she could be pretty much anything and I'd be okay with it. She had always said that it was an old magic song, meant for a drop of sunlight. Alora and I pretty much always thought she meant Alora. After all, that's just about what we called her. A single ray of sunshine. So, after Mom died, we started to sing it. I sing it to her all the time, when she's going to bed.

Now that she's going to bed for the last time, I might as well again.

Keeping my voice as steady as possible, I sing softly, "Flower, gleam and glow... let your power shine... make the clock reverse... bring back what once was mine. Heal what has been hurt... change the fates' design... save what has been lost... bring back what once was mine... what once was mine."

I start to sob, but I keep singing. _Heal what has been hurt_? Really? This song is so hard to sing right now. I can't stop, though. Alora needs me to keep going.

Slowly, ever so slowly, her hand stops stroking my hair. Eventually, it falls limp, and I can feel her fall away from me. I stop even trying to sing and hug her to me tightly, letting myself sob into her silky tresses. "Alora..."

I can hear someone walking just outside the house. "We heard Jordan yell. Is everything-" suddenly, he stops, shocked. Obviously, he's walked in. "What's _happened_?"

I just keep rocking back and forth on my knees, Alora's body clasped tightly to mine. My cries are almost hysterical at this point, even as much as I try to control them. My baby sister is dead. My best friend is gone. They've both been erased from my life, in a cruel and unnecessary manner.

My whole reason for living, the one reason I've been able to support myself since Mom died back when I was twelve, is gone.

The man- I want to say he does something important for the town, but I can't remember right now- walks toward me. I can hear his footsteps on the wooden floor. "Did you hear me, girl? I asked you a _question_. _What happened?_" He reaches out and pulls on my shoulder, but I jerk away from him. I don't want this man touching me. He wouldn't come when my sister screamed. He's responsible, at least partially.

"Don't touch me!" I shriek. "I swear, if you touch me one more time, I will hurt you."

"What's wrong?"

"What's... wrong?" I laugh bitterly, madly, more than overwhelmed from the events of the last three minutes. "Oh, nothing much. I mean, my baby sister and my best friend are dead. They were killed in front of me. Nothing at all. Oh, no. I'm fine. Utterly, entirely fine."

"Jordan is... dead?"

"No, he's taking a _nap_." I snarl. "Of course he's dead, you idiot."

"You little brat." The man doesn't touch me, though, which means that I must have scared him. I don't mind. "Illegitimate daughter of a witch, trouble of our city, terrible, inconsiderate child. Why didn't you protect him?"

"Who, Jordan?" I find myself growing furious with this man. Illegitimate daughter of a witch? It's true, of course. But that doesn't mean it hurts less. "Oh, excuse me, I forgot. I'm supposed to somehow defend people twice my size even when they're trying to defend me."

"He tried to defend _you_?" The man laughs. "Why would anyone want to defend you? You don't deserve it."

"Why, because of my mother?"

"Yes." He moves closer. "Your mother was a terrible person, too. Honestly, you should be dead right now, or never have existed. If we'd have killed her like the mayor had wanted to all those years ago, when she found out she had conceived a child, this would never have happened."

I shake my head and hold Alora even closer. No. Please, I can't do this. Leave me alone. Go away. I need to stay with Alora, I need to be a kid, I need to have time to just sit here.

He scoffs. "Fine. I'm taking the body of the girl, though."

"No."

"Yes. I'm bigger than you."

"You take her, and I will kill you." I'm dead serious. I refuse to let Alora's body out of my arms, refuse to entrust it to these people who didn't care enough to come see what was wrong. Who only wanted to help when they heard that Jordan was in danger.

"An extreme threat, coming from a girl child." He laughs and starts as if to touch my shoulder.

"I mean it. You touch me, and I'm going to kill you." Now that I'm done being overwhelmed, I have this sense of coldness. I would kill this man in a second.

He just laughs, though, and I steel myself to attack him.

Then another voice, a far more melodious voice, comes from the doorway. It's filled with sorrow, but also understanding. "Jasper, don't touch the girl. Leave her alone."


	5. Chapter 5

A/N: Sorry for the long wait... I got a review that made me wanna keep going. :)

* * *

I stay where I'm sitting, but I keep my ears open. "Look," Jasper replies, "I need to take the girl's body so we can bury it. Give her a proper burial."

"And I say no," I reply. I'm calm on the outside, but inside I'm raging. I'm so angry about this. I'm angry that Alora's gone, I'm angry that Jordan's gone, I'm angry that Jasper feels like he can just come in and do whatever he wants. That's not how I do things. And when you try to mess with how I do things, you're in for a surprise. If I've learned one thing from being on my own for all these years, it's how to be determined. "Again, if you touch me or her, I will kill you. Don't think I'm going to do anything else, because I refuse to let you get your nasty hands on my beautiful sister."

He snarls. "You're one to talk. With your heritage, do you really think that you deserve to be allowed any of this anyway? Maybe we should just forcibly take the dead one. You obviously couldn't protect her."

And that's when the self-doubt starts to come in, faster and faster, overwhelming my brain with all the thoughts and self-hatred running through.

_You obviously couldn't protect her._

_You couldn't._

_Your sister died in front of your eyes._

_You were unable to stop them from killing Jordan._

_You couldn't protect him, either._

_Your best friend was killed protecting you._

_You don't deserve any of this._

_You're worthless._

I shudder and press my cheek to Alora's cool skin, wet tears dripping onto her pretty face. I know it was my fault. I just can't accept it. Because accepting it means realizing that I could've helped my sister. That, had I done things correctly, Alora would be here. If I'd let her come along with me to the flower field. If I'd had her go do something while I was gone. If I'd made Jordan occupy her somewhere. If I'd waited to paint for some other day.

But I didn't. And now they're both dead.

"I stand with Neiva on this one," the woman snaps. "Leave. None of your loved ones are here. You are not needed."

_Yours is. Your Alora is here because you can't take care of your family._

"But, Alia-"

"I said, leave."

Alia. Where have I heard that name? Shutting my eyes, I think for a moment. Alia... Alia...

"Fine, fine," Jasper replies, a snarl in his voice. His voice softens ever so slightly. "Take Jordan back, then, when you come back, okay? He's yours anyway."

Suddenly, my eyes snap open. Alia Kilst.

Alia walks forward to Jordan and kneels over him, gathering him up into her arms, starting to sob.

Jordan's mother.

I place Alora down gently onto the cold packed-dirt floor and walk over to Alia, deftly snapping the spear sticking through Jordan's chest and tugging it out, not even noticing the blood now even more thoroughly staining my skirts. Brushing back his dark brown hair, I look up to his mother. "I'm sorry."

"It wasn't your fault," she replies graciously.

"But it was..."

_Why didn't you do something other than just stand there?_

I'm really starting to blame myself for all this now. It hurts. "He was protecting me from the robbers. So they killed him."

Sadly, Alia laughs. "It's not your fault, then. Jordan was protecting you of his own free will. He wanted to keep you safe. So he chose to get hurt himself rather than let you get hurt."

"I could've saved him." I lower my head, ashamed. Idly, I notice that about the bottom half of my hair is utterly soaked in thick blood. It's sticky, and it smells oddly metallic. I hate it. But I suppose it fits me. It's all that does.

_You could've saved them._

"There's something I could've done. There's always something I could've done."

She looks up at me. "Neiva, I know it hurts. I know you hurt. But don't blame yourself. Please."

I shudder and, suddenly, all the sights and sounds start to affect me. The room starts to spin, and I blanch, starting away from Jordan. From Jordan's corpse, covered in thick, sticky, crimson-scarlet blood, devoid of life, missing any spark. I look to Alora, but she's the same way, a desecrated beauty, a tribute to the robbers' utter disrespect for life. For her in general. "I hate them," I say quietly. "I hate them," I say again, louder now. "Those robbers. I hate them with everything I have in me." _All 110 pounds, sopping wet._The memory of Jordan, not ten minutes ago, saying those words to me, makes me start to shake. "I swear, if it's the last thing I ever do, I will find them. And I will make them pay. This torture I'm feeling will find its way into them, somehow, I swear it."

Alia looks up to me and shakes her head. "No. You can't let that control your life."

"Oh, but I can." I laugh, the harsh sound edged with madness. "I will never let anything else I love away from me again. No matter what happens, my loved ones will stay with me."

_Your loved ones. Like there'll ever be any more of them, now that you've managed to lose the ones you had._

"Neiva, listen-"

"No, you listen." I don't even care anymore. My back's pressed against the wall as I unconsciously try to back away from these bloody corpses as far as possible. "Alora and Jordan were my life. Probably even more than Jordan was your life. Because your son gave me a reason to live." My eyes spark vividly. "The day after my mother died, nobody would talk to me. Nobody would so much as look at me. I shut myself and my sister in our house. But then Jordan came along. He'd always liked playing with Alora and I. And this twelve-year-old boy knocked on our door, carrying a loaf of bread, and asked us to come play." I laugh, a sob somehow making its way into my voice. "He was the only person who saw how scared I was. Who acknowledged that I needed someone to help me. Jordan never took advantage of my vulnerability, never let anyone hurt us, never cared that my mother was a witch, never minded that everyone else hated us."

_He was literally your best and only friend. And you let him die._

Alia looks chastened. "I know. And I only barely let him keep going to see you."

"He lied, half the time." I don't even care that I'm telling her this now. Jordan's dead. It doesn't matter. "When he was telling you he was going to go paint, or go find some herb, or go make bread. Usually he already had a painting, or he knew where that herb grew, or he had dough ready. He generally came over here so he could talk to us, at least once a day. You know Aran hates us."

Wincing, Alia nods. "My husband is of the same mind as most of the other villagers. That you should pay for your mother."

"I loved my mother for who she was." I hiss through my teeth. "I don't care. She was_ my mother_. I couldn't care less."

"She was more than just your mother, though." Alia hesitates. "Your mother was..."

"Just _SAY _it already!" I roll my eyes, clenching my hands into fists at my side. "My mother was a slut and a witch. That enough for you? It's a well-known fact, okay? And _I don't care_." It's really honestly taking a lot of effort not to physically attack this woman. I'm already emotionally worn. This isn't helping. "Look, I knew her for twelve years. Nine of those years I actually remember. And she was a far nicer, far more friendly, far more _loving_ person than any of you ever were."

_She's dead too. Her last request was asking you to take care of Alora. Nice work._

"I know, I know, I know, and it tears me apart." Alia stands up to face me across the room. Her sky-blue dress is soaked with a huge bloodstain across the skirt. "I want to help you. I have for a long time. But Aran won't let me. He's the mayor and all, and he feels like even allowing you to live on the outskirts is too much of a burden on the city."

"Oh, I know." I scoff. "Have you ever _noticed_ how often we get in trouble? We do anything- _anything_- that's even slightly off, and we're immediately given a punishment. It's not fair. But it's what you get when everyone hated your mother, I guess."

"We didn't-"

"Oh, don't even start with me." I move away from the wall a step. If there's anything I absolutely abhor, it's when a villager tries to tell me how I should listen to them, how I should trust them because they didn't hate my mother. Or because they don't _really_ hate me. It's always just crap. "You all hated her. She raised us all away from the town because you wanted to kill her. And, by extension, you wanted to kill us." I laugh. "That's why I wouldn't accept your help through all those years. You realize that. You all hated us, and so I decided to stay out here. Relatively secluded, far enough away that you couldn't hurt us."

_Far enough away that they could make the choice to let Alora die._

"And I'm sorry for that." Alia steps closer to me. "Come back to the town. I can take you in as my child. I can make sure you're safe. We can give Alora a proper burial."

I laugh. "No. I'm sorry, no. You're not going to make sure I'm safe, because I'm leaving. I'm leaving all of you. I want to go find those robbers, and I want to make sure that they know how much they hurt me and my closest friends." I walk the distance between myself and her, looking directly into her bright eyes. "And don't even think you're giving Alora a burial. That's for me to do and me alone."

She sighs. "Fine. I'll take Jordan, then."

Something inside me longs to bury Jordan, too. _My_ best friend. He'd always said that he had never really had any close friends until he met me. That, were things different, he'd seriously consider dating me.

And I shared that thought, too.

The only problem was, his dad hated him even associating with me. We had to be content with just being friends. I was okay with it, but I always did so very much want to be accepted.

If I'd had a different mom... maybe this would be different.

_Maybe Alora would be alive. Maybe Jordan would be alive. Maybe you'd be happy, and not heartbroken._

"Fine," I reply, looking down to the floor. "Take him."

She walks over to Jordan and scoops him up into her arms. Walking slightly awkwardly with his weight in her arms, she slowly makes her way to the door. I follow her out, walking out of the house after her. When she's out, she stops for just a second. "Do you want to say goodbye or anything to Jordan?"

Oh, yes, I do. I want to, so badly. I want to tell him how much I wish he was still here. How much I want him back. I want to say how much I still love him, and how I'll never forget him.

But I can't say all that.

So I just stand in front of Alia and, cradling Jordan's head gently, press a kiss to his forehead. "I love you, Jordan," I whisper, letting a tear drip from my eye. "Even if you can't hear me anymore... I want you to know that I love you."

_And he'll never hear that again, because you let him die._

Alia meets my eyes as I look up again. "I'm sorry," she says. She seems at a loss for words, really.

"I know you are." There's nothing to be said. I'm not sorry for her. Not really. She's one of the ones who let Alora die. So I honestly don't care.

I watch as she takes Jordan with her over to the town. As she takes my best friend back to the one place that could've saved him.

I hope they learn their lesson. I really do. I hope they realize that, had someone come to save Alora, Jordan would be alive too. I hope that Aran's heart breaks. I hope that the entire village feels the same utter misery that's in my heart.

And I hope that they never let it happen again.

_They're not the ones who should've done something. This is all. your. fault._


End file.
